


The Death Years

by Isedy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Muggle Content, Asian Character(s), BAMF Ron Weasley, Character(s) of Color, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cultural Differences, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Harry Potter Deserves Better, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, I Only Keep The Parts Of Canon I Like, Islam, Islamic References, Living Again Has Consequences, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Muggle Culture, Muggle Life, Muggle-born Culture, Muggle-born Pride, Queer Culture, Queer Families, Reincarnation, Religious Content, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, SI/OC, Self-Insert, Sister Hermione Granger, Various Muggle Cultures, poc characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23892760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isedy/pseuds/Isedy
Summary: Death was cold and sudden and frightful, like the frost that swept over midwinter fields. Life was warm, like the sunlight that thawed it. Except, in this life, it wasn't quite. [SI/OC insert - Granger!OC]
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inay: mother in Filipino  
> Lolo: grandfather in Filipino  
> mpenzi: love/lover/boyfriend/girlfriend in Swahili  
> Baba: father in Swahili  
> mpendwa: beloved in Swahili  
> mahabubu: beloved in Swahili  
> chéri: darling in French  
> Malaika: angel in Swahili  
> I have always viewed and read Hermione as ethnically (and culturally) ambiguous, particularly as Rowling doesn't expand on her background. Please correct me if I have written any words wrong or written them into any wrong contexts - I do not speak Swahili or Filipino, only French and I don't want to be writing incorrect things into my work

On her wedding day, Rosamie Gautho had not planned on being pregnant.

In an idyllic, perfect world, Rosamie Gautho would get married at her father's small rustic inn in Brittany, looking slim and slender and resplendent in a pretty ivory baro't saya, and a veil that Inay would have stitched covering her long curling locks. Flowers from her Inay's garden would have been in the bouquet that she would be holding—peonies, calla lilies and baby's breath.

In an idyllic, perfect world, Rosamie Gautho would not only not be six months pregnant, but she would be celebrating with her sisters, her Inay and Papa and Grandmère and Lolo and of course, her fiancé's family. Perhaps they would forgo all traditions, and just have an enormous party, drinking wine and laughing and making toasts to a happy future.

In truth, in an idyllic perfect world, Rosamie Gautho would not be getting married until she was thirty-two. Not too old to be impatient for a partner and not too young to be unsure about one. She would have finished her master's degree in Dentistry. She would be opening a clinic of her own, perhaps with a friend from Uni or a colleague from the Dentistry clinic internship she worked for in her master's. She would have the support of her friends, her family, and she would be confident, unafraid and utterly sure of her decisions.

But it was not a perfect, idyllic world, and Rosamie Gautho was not thirty-two, she was twenty-three, and she was six months pregnant and not tentatively trying to conceive with the love of her life. She was not getting married in France, with her father and her Inay, nor with her Lolo or Grandmère.

No, Rosamie Gautho was standing in the Kensington and Chelsea register office on a chilly February morning, her rounding stomach protruding quite obviously from the waistband of her bellbottom jeans, and a flannel shirt hanging loosely around her shoulders. She was not anything she hoped she would be in this situation, not anything she had dreamed of, even fleetingly.

Rosamie was nervous. Far more nervous than she thought she would have been if she'd gotten married in Brittany with her Papa and Inay and Grandmère and Lolo. Her heart was racing, and she was sure that she looked scared because her face was tight and her brows drew together in a way that made the lady behind the desk glance at her oddly, and then eye her carefully for the entirety of half an hour.

"Rosie, darling, we don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Rosamie finally looked over to her boyfriend, into his worried brown eyes and bit her lip. She took a calming breath, and she felt him squeeze her hand, just a little bit clammy from holding it so long.

"Don't be silly Makkah…I want to…I'm just—"

"Scared." Her boyfriend—and, she thought to herself fleetingly, wasn't it fiancé now? —nodded, never taking his eyes off her. Something like chagrin flickered in his face, a realization coming to his eyes.

"No," Rosamie said quickly, trying to calm herself by taking in another breath. She clutched his hand tighter. Intertwining their fingers even more. The ring he'd bought her, a simple gold band clinked against his own. "No, I'm not scared, I'm just nervous. I'm so nervous. I don't want to mess this up, Makkah. You and I…We've been dating for nearly five years and I love you, I know I do, but what if you change your mind? I just…don't want anything to change because we were stupid, and the condom broke that one time—"

Makkah smiled wryly at her, amusement dancing through his eyes.

"Love," he chuckled, squeezing her hand again in comfort, although this time it was less of a death grip and more of a gentle touch. "Love, you were on every single form of birth control available to man. This was…an unplanned milestone, but an entirely welcome one."

Rosamie flushed, staring down at her feet as a wayward curl fell into her face. "I know. I just…I don't know, chéri, I just…don't want our families to think I'm some girl you knocked up on a drunken night because you needed to let loose from studying so hard."

Makkah's mouth was suddenly tight, and his darks eyes went to steel. His face went through an alarming amount of emotion. "Just because I have not introduced you to my family yet, does not mean that they do not know of you. I speak of you often, mpenzi, and they know you as the woman who was gained my respect, my admiration and love. I did not know this weighed on you…if I did, then I would have introduced you to my family sooner."

Rosamie knew that the woman behind the counter was watching their interaction, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care as she felt the tears rise in her throat and clog her eyes. "Oh, mon amour…I love you _so_ much…I'm sorry that I've been so nervous lately and hectic and frazzled. I was just scared because of the baby and because I haven't really told anyone of our situation except Jaslene and Chesa and they haven't been quite so receptive."

Makkah smiled at her softly, endearingly. He pulled her closer, hand loosening from hers to bring her into a warm hug. She buried her nose into his red sweater, enjoying the smell of paper and ink and laundry detergent. He was warm and safe, and he loved her.

"I've also delayed telling my Mama and Baba. I have told my brother, Mosi, and my sister Shani and they haven't said anything against my decision. Shani even wishes to meet you as soon as possible. Mosi, though, wants no part until we decide to tell our parents. He says it mustn't be a secret if we do not want it to fester."

Rosamie chuckled a little bitterly into her boyfriend's chest. "Yes. I agree."

The woman behind the counter coughed a little, and they separated, both flushing a little at the awkwardness of her piercing gaze.

The form was simple, and Rosamie signed with trembling hands and a shaking heart. It was all so new, so terribly dangerously uncertain and Rosamie _hated_ being uncertain. But when Makkah smiled at her, gripping her hand tightly, she thought of the child growing in her stomach and the way it fluttered and kicked underneath her hands. She thought of the way her boyfriend treated her as an equal, as a person of respect and deserving of admiration, and she knew that even if this all went to hell in a handbasket, that they would have each other through this child, if this marriage did not last.

It was in May that they told their families and they did it a little like this:

Rosamie's water broke, and in a panic, she called her Inay and her Papá ordering them to come to The Royal London Hospital as soon as they could manage. They had barely gotten a word in edgewise, stunned into silence and shock, before she let out a blood-curdling scream and the nurse ripped the telephone from her hands to help her get settled onto the hospital gurney. Makkah, riding on her wave of bravery and utter and complete terror, called his own parents and held her hand as he told them to come _immediately._

It was as Rosamie bellowed into her second hour of labor that Makkah's parents Nalah and Henry arrived at the maternity ward in utter surprise, shock and hurt. Soon after, Mosi and Shani arrived, and Rosamie began to scream expletives that made the nurses who spoke French blush to their ears. Makkah held her hand as his mother peered into the room, curious and determined to see her previously unknown daughter-in-law, and Rosamie tried not to be snappish as they began to speak in quick, fervent Swahili, Makkah's face going from determined and supporting, to briefly ashamed, then repentant and regretful.

"Makkah, chéri—" Rosamie groaned, gripping his hand so tight that she thought she heard a creak. She was sweating and pretty certain that she looked a spectacle of disgusting, which was not the ideal way to meet her mother-in-law but right now, as the child pushed through her she could not bring herself to care very much. "I know we have to… _ugh god…_ to talk about this with our parents but… _oh putain, espèce de_ …I will _murder_ you if you don't…ARGH…support me… _RIGHT NOW—!"_

Makkah immediately turned to her, and his murmurs, his reassurance and support were the only things she heard.

For nine hours and ten minutes, Rosamie screamed. She cried and groaned and pushed and sobbed. The pain was unbearable. There were times where she was sure that she would pass out from the pain of it all. There were also times when she was acutely aware of what was being done to her—having almost chosen an OB/GYN nursing track instead of dentistry after starting her master's—and she was terrified that it was being done incorrectly.

She was groaning with pain, and her hospital gown was soddened with her tears and sweat and blood when she felt the sudden urge to push.

"You've got this Rosamie," A nurse between her legs encouraged her, and Rosamie moaned, expletives and curses and pleas escaped her lips.

"You're almost there, mpendwa," Makkah murmured into her brow. He had sat down next to her, the nurses providing him with a stool when it was evident that he was not moving from his spot. He brushed the curls from her face and kissed her cheek and held her hand. "Just the last couple of pushes, mahabubu. Just the last steps until we get to meet our child."

It was with those words that Rosamie pushed, her mouth opening in a stretching scream, eyes closing with the sting of the tears that blurred her vision and the child slid from her womb.

Black and white stars were flashing in front of her eyes as her child was placed into her awaiting arms, and she had to blink, once, twice, to focus on the face of her baby.

When she did, Rosamie sucked in a small, gentle gasp. The love that wrapped itself around her heart, that made her feel so full she could barely breathe was so natural that she couldn't even manage to query the peculiarity of the feeling.

"Congratulations," the nurse beamed at them, but Rosamie could barely concentrate on what she was saying. It was like she was underwater; only she and her baby and Makkah existed, and nothing could interfere or separate them. "You have a wonderful baby girl."

Makkah's voice was hushed, miraculous. "A daughter."

His hand traced their daughter's small, snub nose, trailing his fingers over the ridge of her brows. Rosamie smiled, tears dripping down her cheeks in joy, as she took their baby in. Warm, brown, soft skin. Small, shallow breaths. A tiny, perfect rosebud mouth. Loose, dark brown curls sparse on her head. When she opened her newborn eyes, Rosamie sucked in a sharp breath of awe. Her daughter's eyes were a dark gray, and they were searching, vision not having developed enough to recognize anything but her parents.

"Oh," Rosamie's voice trembled with tears. "But she's perfect."

"What should we call her, love?" Makkah's voice was quiet, still utterly enthralled at the miracle that had occurred, and his eyes were drawn in by the fluttering of his newborn.

"Hermione." Rosamie whispered. "Hermione Jean Granger."

"That's perfect." Her husband whispered, and he traced his daughter's soft cheeks, his eyes suspiciously wet. "She's perfect."

Of course, not all perfect, wonderous moments lasted forever, but in that moment, Rosamie and Makkah Granger were so truly, deeply, utterly in love with the child that lay encircled in their arms, that they did not care about the things to come, the trouble or the yelling or the hurt or the resentment.

No, Hermione Jean was a miracle, and even though the days would be hard, their daughter made everything worth it.

…

Rosamie was staring at the strip of pink in utter and complete shock.

They had been careful, so very, very careful and yet…

Her Inay had been furious at her. Had refused to speak to her, even having met their little daughter, her granddaughter at the London Royal Hospital. No, Elouera Gautho had remained furious, and betrayed, and even though Rosamie had seen the flash of yearning and deep unadulterated love in her eyes at sighting her granddaughter, Rosamie knew that she had hurt her mother far more than she could imagine.

It was only when Jaslene and Chesa had convinced Elouera to come visit for Christmas that their Inay had tentatively forgiven Rosamie.

But now, with the pregnancy test shaking in her hand, she did not know what she should do. Inay had been very obvious at the joy of having a grandchild, and yet expressly clear when she'd fixed Rosamie with her dark brown eyes and told her that should she want to continue her career, she should wait before having another child. That once Rosamie had two children, it would be even harder to hand them off to a babysitter and depart for work in the mornings.

Rosamie raised her eyes to spy the other fourteen tests sitting idly on the edge of the bathtub. Something close to terror swirled in her stomach. She loved her daughter, Rosamie knew that; she loved Hermione more than anything in the entire world, more than she could even begin to express and yet…she put a shaking hand to her womb, not yet expanded.

She choked on a quiet sob.

It had only been a year since Hermione had been born, and it had been _difficult_ , so _difficult_ getting back into the game of dentistry, applying for jobs and even internships had been like climbing mount Everest in her only her underthings.

No one wanted a twenty-four-year-old dentistry graduate mother who was already married, intent on starting a career. Makkah had had more luck; he was just finishing his internship at a clinic on the outskirts of London, but it had taken him more than six months to find a one that would allow their small family to live somewhat comfortably, and he had graduated from Cambridge with the highest scores anyone had seen in a decade.

Rosamie had tried, of course, and yet she still had had no luck. They took one glance at the year between her graduation and the present, and it was like they _knew._

She raised a shaking hand to smooth back her curls, trying her hardest to blink back the stinging tears.

Footsteps sounded outside the door and Rosamie sucked in a sharp breath.

"Rosie, darling…" She heard Makkah calling, and she couldn't stop the beating of her heart as it rose in her chest. The door of their small bathroom creaked open, and Rosamie could barely blink from the fear that curled around her heart and shook her to the core.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, shaking a little. "Malaika…what—are those what I think they are?"

Rosamie tilted her head slowly, and the terror gripped her heart strong.

She stared into her husband's eyes and saw the realization that filled them.

"I'm pregnant." She whispered.

And suddenly, everything was different.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death was cold and sudden and frightful, like the frost that swept over midwinter fields. Life was warm, like the sunlight that thawed it. Except, in this life, it wasn't quite. [SI/OC insert - Granger!OC]

The road to hell was paved with good intentions. She had heard this phrase, had used it herself many a times. But she did not think it was quite as literal as they made it out to be. Mistakes would be made, and they would mean well, and hell was just another word for mildly bad.

It was the scholarship that brought them to D.C. Or as her brother had called it, the Miracle.

It was the scholarship that had brought her family to D.C. She had studied hard for it. Studied and studied and studied until her eyes felt like they were going to fall from her brain and her mouth was going to rust shut from reading off flashcards and notes and presentations. It was the scholarship that brought her to her death.

Perhaps she should have been more afraid. Times were dark, still, and America did not take kindly to strangers in their land, not anymore. She had been lucky, so very, very, very lucky to be accepted here, to have been vetted and checked and interrogated until she was able to pass on freely without much suspicion. Perhaps she should have been more careful. These Americans did not like her people, did not like the way she looked or the way she prayed or the way she dressed. These Americans did not quite see her as _people_ , or, if they did, then they could not tear away the fear from their eyes, and their hatred and terror and misconception blinded them enough to want to kill her, to wipe her away, murder her to get rid of her.

(But it was a miracle, and, as her mother liked to say, _be patient, for what is written for you was written by the greatest of writers._ )

Perhaps she should have been more fearful—but as the doors of the building slammed open with a force previously unimagined, she could not bring herself to feel much of anything.

Not much of anything except—shock.

They held guns. They were black and shiny and metallic. They glinted in the dull light of the room. She had never seen anything so dangerous, so terrifyingly simple and yet so capable of the worst sin. Their eyes were wild and vicious and crazed, and they spouted words that made her tremble and shake. Words that made her hate being alive for a moment, for if her presence alone created such strife and fear and rage perhaps it would be better for her to just—but no, she should she proud, her mother told her, she should be proud to be who she was, to be alive and breathe and stand tall. To believe in the things that made her human, even if others did not. Her father was holding her hand when she died. Her mother screamed, high and horrified and agonized. Her brother, only two, hid behind the stacks of the library, his hands over his ears, brown eyes wide in terror and shock and fear.

Her sister, a baby cradled in her mother's arms, wailed for things she could not yet understand.

They were all so very afraid, and they were shaking, and people were crying and screaming and running. There was so much blood; spattered against the walls, seeping into the books and coating the pages, staining them with pink and red and _violence._ The people were wide-eyed and panicked and scrambling, scrambling, scrambling to get away.

Her father was holding her hand when she died, and she remembered the way that the bullets felt sinking into her chest, her neck, her face. How they carved deep into her, scarring her, ripping and tearing and killing. She remembered the way she blew backwards, and her father was still gripping her hand and there was _screaming_ such desperate, unholy _screaming—_

A singular, building kind of horror rose in her throat and for a moment, she blinked; her eyes caught her father's and he squeezed her hand—

And then there was nothing.

_They came to kill us, and they did._

…

There was a soft hush in the room when the baby opened its eyes. When Rosamie stared down at her second daughter, tears clumped in her throat, and her breath caught; there was confusion and horror and sheer, unregulated _terror_.

(Every baby is different, she tried to console herself, but Rosamie knew this was wrong, knew that her daughter was so _afraid_ she could not even begin to cry in her dread)

Makkah ran a finger over the black shiny hair, shaking.

"Helena." He said softly, not taking his eyes off their daughter. "Helena Juno Granger."

If Rosamie held her tighter than before, tighter than she'd held their first daughter, she would not have been able to explain how she knew that her daughter needed it.

If Makkah hushed their girl's cries with a vengeance he'd never shown to his firstborn, his desperation to console their Helena rising within him like a tidal wave, he would not have been able to articulate it either.

And when the lights flickered in every hospital room, on the cusp of a sweet summer morning, bulbs swaying, electricity humming and thrumming until sparks showered the air, the nurses merely found it a coincidence when the newborn started to wail.

…

The world was blurry and strange and discombobulating. She had learned that English word on the test she'd taken—SAT. Discombobulating. Her brother had giggled at the sound, not used to the pronunciation, the sound fuzzy on his tongue, awkward sliding from his mouth.

She had practiced that word many times in the mirror. Had let the _disc-_ start off gritted between her teeth, let the _com-_ slide over her tongue, the _bob-_ bubble and swell in her mouth, pushed the _u-_ to her lips, and the _la-_ roll and the _ting_ tear, until the word struggled to fill the air. Her accent had never been perfect, and she sounded confused most of the times, unsure of the words she spoke, and the meanings she perpetuated with them.

_Discombobulating,_ she remembered searing the word into her brain, burning it to her memory, scorching it into her mind—her mother had tested her on what it meant in their sunlit kitchen while watering the basil on the windowsill: _confused, disconcerted; "he is looking a little pained and discombobulated."_

The world was like that now.

Her eyes were barely open; only slivers of light managed to fall through, and it was all gray. For a moment, she thought she'd gone to Jahannam. That her mother's words, however light-hearted and scolding as a child, had wrung true. That she had shirked, and she could not, would not, _would never_ be pardoned by Him.

But then she had heard the words. The English words, the ones she so very struggled with. They were not loud, and they were not quiet. They droned and buzzed in the background, hushed and loud all at once. They spoke quickly, far faster than what she could hear with these dulled ears.

She didn't think Jahannam held English words, or at least not _these_ English words—the sentences were complex, and thick with meanings she could not quite grasp. Nor did it hold streaming sunlight, or blurry giants stroking her face with unmeasurable affection.

Sometimes, she thought she heard little, pattering footsteps in the middle of the night, lingering behind her tall, looming door and echoing in the corridor. Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, just before the smaller giant blur came in to feed her and lull her back to sleep, she thought she felt small, cold fingers tracing her features.

Perhaps they had managed to save her. The thought was in her head, and even though she remembered what had been done to her, the moments after were blurry and wrecked and _wrong_.

(There was something that had seeped into her then, that had seeped into her being and settled into her bones so deeply that she could never separate it from herself, never tear it from her shoulders so long as she lived and breathed.)

Perhaps she was merely in a strange, blurry hospital. She knew they had killed many. That their twisted, gleaming, glittering guns had ruined many lives that day. That the chaos and the fear were so fierce within her she could still feel it coursing through her, the adrenaline that had not kicked in when it had happened filling her up to the brim, and she _screamed_ when she realized she could not move from her place.

When the arms picked her up, the fear spilled into her mouth and she thought desperately of the memory of her mother, reading the word from the card, and how she'd managed to answer almost immediately.

She paid no mind, burned these lurking, doubting things from her thoughts. She could not _bear_ to think… _(she was so cold and afraid and alone…no one was here, no one was coming to get her, and her father had let go of her hand…)_ She shook it from her mind. Expunged all that could and could not be.

And it, she reassured herself voraciously, _could not be._

( _Please._ Please. Don't let it be.)

Instead, she blinked. She breathed. She tried to open her eyes for more than a sliver. Maybe, if she opened them wider, she would see her Anneciğim, her Baba, and they would take her away from here, and they would let her go to D.C. even after this.

Time passed, and she was scared.

Her Anneciğim was no-where to be found, and her Baba was gone, and her siblings did not come to find her. This hospital room was full of people she did not know, full of things she was not used to. The people were becoming clearer now, and as she blinked and breathed and looked, the thoughts she'd hidden and buried and shoved away began to stew in her mind.

Things like _what if_ …and _maybe…_

Had she…died?

She shut her eyes and breathed so fast she thought her lungs would explode.

Their guns had been so quick and loud and bright in the library. Her father's hand had been sweaty, and she remembered his horror-struck brown eyes boring into hers as she was blown back and—

The screaming. The screaming had been so loud, and her brain hadn't worked fast enough, her body had been glued still, unmoving and shocked, and she'd been stuck and the bullets—

_She felt it pierce her chest, rip through her neck and tear into her skull._

She pissed herself. Soiled her diaper and her clothes and the realization, the horrifying, blood-curdling realization was building inside of her until she could no longer _breathe—_

_They had killed her._

_She was dead. She had_ _**died** _ _in that library. On that University campus, her father holding her hand._

The footsteps were immediate and swift at the beginnings of her loud whimpers.

The door to her room was opening and she only caught sight of the new people when they rushed to pick her up. The woman was short, and slender. Her hair was a muddy blonde, and her slanted eyes were a fierce, determined brown. She wore bellbottom jeans and a black turtle neck. Her lips were very red, the blonde curls of her hair making the color stand out. The man was tall and lanky. His hands were large and smooth. His hair was wild on his head, spreading out into an afro. The sweater-vest he wore was green, and the collar of his blue shirt was upturned. His eyes were deep and brown and _worried._

And when they picked her up, swaddled her into their arms, the hysteria rose and grew until the bounds broke and the horror was no longer hidden; she laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until the dread and terror and rage exploded, and the wailing began.

There, in the comforting arms of her new mother and father, she had only one thought:

She hadn't known names could be quite so _literal._

(But then again, the road to hell was paved with good intentions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneciğim: mother in turkish  
> Baba: father in turkish  
> Jahannam: Islamic hell


	3. Chapter 3

_(…And the Lord Creator Declares in Truth in His Glorious Quran, that each and every human being will be born only once from their mother's womb, to give test for a period of one life time on this earth; and every single human being will, without an iota of a doubt, taste the element of death…)_

…

She had been told that she had been a good baby. That she had been quiet and serene, with big, round brown eyes, watching and learning, and an eternal grin on her face, curious at all things the world offered. She had been told that when they rocked her, to try and lull her to sleep, that she'd fallen into a doze within the first minute of movement.

In her first life, she had been a good baby.

In this life; this life born of pain and misery and death-less suffering, she was not. The moment where she realized where she was, she'd become insufferable. The agony that had washed over her—knowing that she had died, not knowing if her father or her mother had died and if her little siblings were orphans now or if they were gone too—was inescapable. As an adult, she would have busied herself, losing her mind in all the tasks that were to come; preparations for the funerals, gathering friends and families, making sure that they had settled with Allah and were going to Janna.

As an infant, she was stuck. Stuck in an unfinished, unmolded body. Stuck in a mind that had little memory and grasp of the now and so relegated her consciousness to the last moments before the chasm of infinity—the moments of her death.

In the west, or perhaps in Christianity, she didn't quite know, they liked to say that in the last moments of your life, you would relive the entirety of your existence from birth to that exact, defining moment. In Judaism, they said that when you were born, an angel came down to press its thumb against your lip, to form the cupids bow and show you what life was to come, and while you forgot it all in the moments that the touch left your skin, lingering echoes of it shadowed in your mind in the form of _déjà vu._

It was nothing like that. No angel came to see her to gift her with visions of what was going to happen to her, and no sledgehammer of memories came to reel itself in front of her eyes, to show her greatest regrets and winnings and losses. _(Her own god was silent, and she wondered, all along, if He'd abandoned her too)._ Instead, she was trapped. Her newborn brain was fuzzy, twitching; still forming and twisting into what would be, and she couldn't focus. There were things she thought she saw—like the flickering of a lamp at her deepest anger, the swaying of the door at her inescapable sadness—that she did not know if they were real.

It was nothing like any stories, nothing like anything she'd ever heard in their prayer book, nor any uttering of an Imam. She was in excruciating, agonizing _pain._ The sounds of life were overwhelming, and everything was new and large and blurry; disorienting, discombobulating and eternally horrifying. She was wholly, and utterly _terrified._ She was a baby, a child now, and she did not know where she was, she did not know who her parents were, and she was _stuck._ The doubts circled inside her mind like vultures: tearing into her whenever they could, until she thought she'd truly _scream_ with her fear. They could hurt her, these new parents. They could make her suffer; could hit and yell and shout. They could twist cruel, biting words into angelical tones that rode like the swords of Valkyries into her grieving heart. They could kill her now, if they were unstable or if they didn't feed her or love her.

She was stuck and it wasn't pretty or hopeful; no, whatever person, god, entity, _being,_ had delivered her unto a new life had not bothered to quell her fears, still her horror, nor quiet her worries. She was a child, an _infant_ again, and she didn't quite know what she should—or even _if_ she should do.

When one was born again, when one was given new chance and opportunity, should they take it? Even if it was terrifying, mind-boggling, horrifyingly, desperately _unknown?_ Even if it wasn't anything like she'd been led to believe, her whole life? For it wasn't her God that gave new life, or circled the wheel of birth at random, she'd always known that, for hers wanted His children close to him when they left the earthly sphere.

Perhaps if her adult mind was not stuck inside the body of a child where ideas like had she stolen someone's place, someone's body, someone's _child,_ circled inside her, bubbling and frothing like an evil, smoldering tar of malevolence, perhaps she would have been easier about it.

But she remained, alive and breathing, despite all her agony, her fear, her bursting, rushing confusion.

_She didn't know what to think._

It had been months since that day when her new parents had come bursting in at the sound of her whimpers, and they had grown tired, and slightly snappish at the way she still cried in the night, the way she could not quiet the flashes of those guns, or smooth away the remnants of those ricocheting bullets. The fear and the horror and the agony could not be taken away from her; she'd died afraid, and it seemed, that she was re-born afraid too. The slam of the door shook her to her very core, and she relived her death at each echoing noise—the rush of the bullets, the way they'd pierced her all at once, ripping—

The woman who called herself mother always came then, with hushing noises and lulling tunes, singing to her in thick accented English, perfect, doting French and the other languages she didn't recognize. Sometimes, she brought with her the tall, dark-skinned man, who held the wide expressive brown eyes, and who traced her cheek until her eyes were shuttering closed with the temptation of sleep. He spoke to her too, in a low, drumming voice that made her eyes water because he sounded so very _loving_ and she remembered—

Flashes of bright smiles and black, shiny hair tugged back formally, and a dark blue tie—

_Baba—_

_(I love you, I love you, my beautiful star—you're so smart, so quick, and I am so_ _**proud** _ _—_

— _and such horrifying screams left his mouth, at the sight of his daughter with blank eyes and a bloodied face—she was dead his girl, dead, dead, dead)_

She always cried when he left, this new father, blubbering and sniffling softly, wanting to reach out and capture his presence with everything she could strain, and yet it felt like a terrible betrayal of the one she'd left behind. She tried not to think of how the new mother whispered to him of her fears and worries; how they lingered at her bedroom door, eyes riveted on her rising and falling chest, ever-watching.

She tried not to think very much at all.

(Did they love her, these parents? Did they love her like the father who'd held her hand as they shot and killed her—like the mother who had shielded her children with her body? — _she dared not think_ )

Her small body confused her. Smallness was strange, and being so once again, after being _big_ was even stranger. Things that she knew she'd had control over before, no longer came to her easy. There were times where she needed to scream and she didn't know if it was because her mind whirled inside her head, because she could no longer _speak_ of the rage or the hurt or the fear, or if it was because her gums ached with the press of growing teeth, making her head beat like a drum.

Everything was changing; a kaleidoscope of difference was both slamming into her, and at the same time, gently edging itself under skin. Things did not make sense here; an amalgam of gray and blurriness and shoved, twisted understanding, eked out from what she tried to comprehend.

The languages were different, and her name was too, and she could not recognize herself in this small body. Didn't even know if she was herself, _truly,_ as she had been when she'd died.

_Who did you become,_ she wondered often as she lay in the wood crib, _when you've already died once?_

Was she even the same woman—although, she was a baby, a child now, so wasn't she a _girl_ again? —she'd been before? She knew she didn't look the same. Her skin was a warm dark brown, in near opposite to her smooth olive skin tone, and her hair was a shade lighter than the jet black she'd sported before; curling and kinky and full of restless, moving waves, instead of the sea of calm it'd been in her first life. She didn't even sound the same: her voice was high and sweet, a child's melody, and not the thrumming heavy tunes of her first body.

Her mother always said it so: avalanches start small, whispering and moaning, like the tales of the wind, and it's only when it's too late to split and run that you hear their deafening roar.

It was her mind that was the avalanche: ripping and tearing yet swathing her with novelty and the unrecognizable; the echoing roars were the world she'd been forced into: the dated clothes, the mixed English speech, the other languages that lay odd on her tongue when she tried to recreate them. (She caught herself, _always,_ when she made the noises for father, mother. Those, searing utterances of agony, _were not theirs._ )

This was not her world. Hers was larger than this, much easier to wade and walk through. Her legs were strong and tall, sturdy from all the years she'd relied on them. She knew her world by the back of her hand—an intimacy, for all its vastness. She knew where she came from, knew her heritage, knew the languages that floated around her, enough to speak her mind, to say what exactly she needed to.

Here…this was not her world; this tiny, cramped room that looked large to her, with the wide, high windows and light blue curtains that made the sparse sunlight dapple. This body was not of her world, with its smallness, its childishness and baby-ness. She did not belong to this dark skin, or this coiling, curling brown hair, nor to its dulcet crying tones. These parents were not hers. She was their skin, their flesh, but her mind could not, would not, abide to this precedence. They didn't look like her parents; a melee of tawny white and black-brown skin. Two pairs of brown eyes, watching, ever-worried.

This was not her world, not her skin or her body, or her parents.

And yet…as her vision was beginning to clear, as she could start to feel the brushes of feeling echoing over her skin and the ringing of her ears started to lessen, she knew with a startingly clear certainty, that it _would be._

What choice did she have…?

She shut her eyes; lately, she tried not to think of much of anything at all.

_(Who will I become now, a girl such as I, born of death?_ )

…

(He created Death and Life that He may test you: to see which of you is best in deeds.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not religious, so if I am wrong or incorrect on any of the themes or meanings of the things that I quote/mention/research I would very much appreciate it if someone who was religious (Christian, Jewish, Muslim) would correct me as I'm only particularly familiar with the general outlines of each. Enjoy :)
> 
> (...And the Lord Creator...) to (...taste the element of death...) is an excerpt taken from the website: islamhelpline. I don't think that it's in the Quran but it does mention several quotes from the Quran to make this comment so! I figured it would be accurate.  
> (He created Death) until (is best in deeds) is also from the aforementioned website and this time it's in the Quran, I believe.


	4. Chapter Four

She faded in and out of clarity.

Part of her wondered, offhandedly, if it was her own mind trying to protect her—shield her—from what had happened.

She found, suddenly, that she could blink time away. Night and day eclipsed, and the rituals of time no longer meant anything to her. Everything passed too quickly, too slowly, or all at once.

Her world was gray, and dull, and tired.

Her eyes burned and ached—from the tears, the anger—and that was when life felt less like a haze. When she became stuck—entrapped—within her very mind, that was when she came back to time, to reality, to herself.

Whoever that was.

In those deadened, conscious moments was when she aware of the off-white of her crib, and the shimmering plastic planets dangling over her head, and—

How it felt to be clutched tightly in the embrace of this new mother; how it was to grab at the fat, red necklace that draped gorgeously across her sharped collarbones; how it felt to be tucked into the black, clunking buggy, the smell of freshly-cut grass filling her nose as her new father belted out lyrics in a language she had no knowledge of.

It was in those moments, that she realized _where_ she was.

Alive again, after everything. A new family, clutching her, raising her, loving her.

She didn't know how to be a child again, not after _that_. There were parts of her that couldn't ever be cut out again; not with time, or healing, or sleep. There were parts that howled in frothing rage, vicious lashing anger—parts that twisted and churned within her, a clash of loss, and grief, and _the death._

(The death.

She had been killed but hadn't died.

Could she even call it _hers_?)

Sometimes, she wanted to scream at the very audacity of life to call her back. To dissolve into hysterical laughter, or rising sobs, or anything that would let the veil of grief lift. Except, there were parts of her in that too, parts of her that were tired. The kind of tired you could only ever find in those who've lived too long.

She wasn't a good baby this time around, but she wasn't a bad one either.

She was simply…tired. Exhausted. There was nothing for her here. Nothing she wanted from this…she hesitated, _loathed_ , to call it chance. She did not want to call it—the life—the body— _whatever_ —a chance. Because…she'd had all of that in _her_ life. In _her_ body; in her dreams, and wants, and desires.

They had all faded now, with the grief, and the soul-sucking loss, but she remembered them all too well. The weight of them sat like an anvil in the back of her mind, pushing deeper and deeper into her, wrapped in heated rage and sorrow.

She'd had things to do, dreams to fulfill, had a life of her own, a family that had made her and—

Everything hurt when she thought too much.

The haze would return at the jagged ruined throbbing of her mind.

She closed her eyes.

...

It was like a limb was missing, inexplicably torn from her.

It felt, if she had to describe it, like something had been stolen from inside her. A life, a heartbeat, a choice.

It was taken away from someone who hadn't wanted to—wasn't supposed to—die. (not like that). It made everything feel more unfair, more horrible, more terrible, and she _hated_ it, _loathed_ it, _reviled_ it, because why, why—

_Why was she alive—?_

...

She tried not to be bitter.

It remained, as usual, harder than she would've liked.

Mostly, because she couldn't bear to bring herself to feel much of anything. There were days where she wished the bullets had scarred her in this life, to remind her and never let her forget what had happened before _this._

It wasn't _fair_ , that she was here, unscathed, breathing, living, not when—

Her heart stopped. Jumped straight to the notch of her throat.

Had her family, her father, her mother—

Had they died too?

(How many times would she ask herself that question?)

She didn't move again that day, not even when she felt the new mother's caress on her cheek.

...

The feelings were bright, and terrible. Still just exactly as paralyzing as when she'd first awakened.

Except now…she was numb.

The astoundingly brilliant outrage that bloomed in her chest, the irrationally fanatical moods, the sobbing, the screaming, the keening whimpers…the shock had faded away, with some time.

She still didn't know how much time had passed. She couldn't get herself to focus on anything for too long; it felt too much like acceptance for a life she didn't want.

It was a pulsing, raw, infected wound, and she was not strong enough to stitch it back up. Now, she wanted to sleep. To be numb. Until the world grew hazy and blurred again, until she didn't have to think about what she felt like in this new body, in this new life.

...

She wanted to go home.

She wanted to wake up in an American hospital, covered in white, scratchy standard-issue blankets, next to an overflowing pile of get-well cards and a bouquet of magnolia flowers on the nightstand.

She wanted her mother's lilac perfume to fill her nose. To feel the strength of her warm arms—she wanted the mother she knew, the one she trusted—not this new, strange one. She wanted her mother to hug her; _her_ child, not _theirs_ ; to take her scarred, brokenness in her arms, and tell her that she was _there_ and _alive_ in her arms.

She wanted to feel the softness of her hijab against her cheek, the pins digging only slightly into her scalp. She'd worn it with pins that day, to keep it from moving too much when she would walk across campus.

She wanted to feel her father's hand in hers again. She wanted it to have ended differently. Not with him, clutching at her, screaming in desperation. Just with her Baba, finding her palm with his calloused fingers in that American hospital; to feel the love, and adoration, and relief that she'd lived. Not the grief she'd died in.

She wanted the ache of the bullets that had ripped into her cheek and face and neck. Wanted to feel the unfamiliar scratch of white gauze covering her skin. The pinch of a needle in her veins to replenish the vitals that had dropped.

_She wanted to know that—wanted to feel like—she had survived despite those who'd maimed her._

It was always then that the bitterness felt too crushing. It was a looming fact of her current existence that she _had_ lived; despite the shooters, despite the guns, and the bullets, and the killing—

Just not how she _wanted._

...

She had not known just how little she was until the day her mother lifted her to the hallway mirror.

Enough time had passed that the world was colorful again. Though not enough to settle her within it.

She remembered blinking.

Trying to understand if the sight before her was an illusion of her own imagination, or a reality. If this was how she looked like now.

She didn't really know how she'd _looked_ , not anymore. Dying had taken away clarity, and living had not given it back.

The new mother held her, and she looked at the mirror. Watching. Observing.

Her legs were short, squirming, and pudgy, covered by pale green overalls. Her feet were small, and dainty, clothed in bright blue socks. Each have a wide, yellow smiling face sewn into them. In her hair—black curls, thick and shiny—there sat a small, red bow.

It glinted in the morning light.

And suddenly, the air knocked from her lungs, and her breathing hitched.

_Too raw. Too vivid._

Her mother cooed to her in gentle French, chattering away at words she was just beginning to make sense of; all sweet, loving little descriptions of her prettiness, her chubby cheeks, and burgeoning intelligence.

All she could focus on however, was the look in her eyes: bitter, and lonely, and grieving.

It was as if the mirror was a warped, distorted image; as if it was _wrong_ that a child looked like her; a sin to have someone who appeared so innocent be tarnished by the soul that rested inside of them.

She tried not to cry now, looking at her tiny, baby body in the mirror.

Her face was small, and brown, and fat. It looked ashen, and decidedly Not A Child's face. Her eyes, darkened honey-brown, shone blotchy and red, unhappy. Her hands were clutching around her new mother's neck, tangling in her long, light-brown hair, and in the familiar fat, beaded necklace around her throat.

She looked like…a child. Except, also _not._ She hadn't realized just how much of a child she was until now. She'd guessed at it, in a vague, undetermined kind of way. Presumed at the body, the face, and the little-ness of her. But mostly, she'd tried to forget, or dream it away.

She did not know what do to with that. How to deal with this.

So, she sat. Saddled in her mother's arms, letting her pet her cheek softly, trying hard not to flinch. By the growing heaviness of the woman's eyes, and the thinning of her lips, she hadn't succeeded.

Still, the—woman—mother tried again. Her smile stayed unfailingly bright, even if her eyes did not match.

"C'est toi, ma petite." The woman spoke quietly. Her voice was soothing. Brown eyes were watching her, always watching. "That's _you_ , my little Helena."

It's the name that made her jolt in surprise.

She hadn't heard it, not spoken so clearly. (Or maybe she had, and tried to tear it from her memory, rejecting it before it could ever become reality). It felt strange—she hadn't grown into it. Helena was not her name, and it feels…too big.

(She was not ready for this, not yet. No matter how she tries to be.)

She closed her eyes again, letting her face fall back into her mother's neck. The dull, thudding ache in her chest grew sharper with every inhale of this woman's perfume.

It's not lilac.

...

It felt like a fluke. A mistake.

She had lived after the killing, after the death. But she'd waited, quietly, patiently, in her off-white crib for death to creep back into her body. To settle again, deep in her bones, fused to her mind, and take her away.

So, she waited, and let every breath she took leave her lungs like it was the last time she'd ever feel her chest rise.

She knew how it ended, after all. She waited. And waited. And waited.

And when she'd started to grow, she tried not to go mad.

She still didn't know if she'd succeeded.

...

Reality was beginning to settle in her again.

Sleeping doesn't take her away from this life, not anymore. The feelings were sinking inside of her; making a home in the middle of her chest.

Her parents— _these parents?_ She doesn't know if they're hers or not, anymore—still hover. But they've moved her out of her crib, and she has a small, cherrywood single bed now, though the blue walls of her room remain the same.

Sometimes, she found herself pattering around the house, and she wondered when she learned to walk.

She's forgotten—or refused to remember—so many things. She still has not spoken, and she knew this because her parents always tried to make her. She pretended like she couldn't see the worry in their brown eyes.

In truth, she didn't know how to start again. There was still a haziness about her mind, even though it was sharper now. Brighter.

The only sounds she thought worth making were endless, grief-stricken shrieks.

It's too painful. Still. Maybe…forever.

...

It had taken her much longer than she would have liked to realize that in this house, there lived another child.

It's on a dull, foggy morning, that she noticed her sister for the first time, just as her father leaves for work.

She'd noticed little about her life until then, but Helena is able to recognize her father even from afar.

_(The name—her name—still feels sticky in her mind; porous, and Not Hers, but she tries to remember that it had been given to her, and she had never been raised to throw gifts back into one's face._

_It doesn't always help.)_

Makkah Granger is a tall, lanky man who smelled like strong coffee and the clean, cotton laundering soap her mother used. His smile is wide and warm, and he sported a deep dimple in his left cheek. It flashed whenever he spoke to her. He liked to wear dark grey neckties, and the navy-blue shirts her mother said contrasted nicely with his eyes.

_(Helena had never, not once, seen him angry._

_At least...that's what she thinks she remembers.)_

She didn't even know when, or how, she first notices her sister.

It's as if she simply springs to life from the surrounding pink wallpaper, appearing before her in vivid colors and life; suddenly, and strikingly separate from the background.

Her sister sat across from her at the breakfast table, three years old and tiny (she learns this later), and Helena _stared_ at her.

The newspaper she sometimes sees her mother flip through is tucked tight in her sister's pudgy hand; it's all very sudden, and strange, and she didn't know how she didn't notice this child before.

She didn't really know how to feel about that—because—because—it had been _two years_ and she hadn't noticed this child's existence until this very moment.

She knew her mother, and her father, but not this child.

What else has she missed—what else had slipped from her mind—?

"Hermione," her mother was saying, and Helena felt something like _interest_ trickling down her spine. (It's the first time she's feeling anything other than numbness. Or loss. Or grief.) She's heard that name somewhere before—she's sure of it. "Eat your breakfast, mon chou."

Helena looked down at her own breakfast briefly—cut up bananas and yoghurt.

She wrinkled her nose: she _loathed_ bananas.

Her sister— _Hermione_ , Helena breathed into the quiet of her mind, _her name is Hermione_ —looked adorably furious.

It's in this moment that Helena notices their differences. Hermione looked like a child; big teeth, wide innocent eyes that narrow in frustration, and slow, chattering words. She smelled of milk and baby powder, and she didn't look in control of many of her movements—no matter how tightly she clutched at that newspaper.

Helena wasn't like that, not anymore.

_(She has vague memories now that her mind is brighter, emerging. Memories of understanding things that she's done before—every action deliberate, calculated._

_Helena Granger knew exactly what she was reaching for, and why, and how she'd go about it._

_Nothing was new to Helena, because she'd already done this all before, already knew exactly what not to do._

_It sat in her face like a terrible, aching secret; obvious only to those who knew where to look._

_The red eyes, oddly tired, and the tucked tongue, lips wired shut. The tilt of her head—knowing, lazy, exhausted._

_A child without innocence—it made people shudder.)_

Helena stared at her sister, wide-eyed, mouth agape, until she heard her father's laugh.

It is the first time she remembers acting anything other than…sad. It is the first time she remembers anything _bright._

"Rosamie—look! It seems our littlest is enamored with our eldest."

_Rosamie_ turns to look at her with surprised affection—it's that movement that makes Helena realize it's her new mother's name.

It fits her. Her mother _Rosamie_ is gentle, and soft, and even if she wasn't the one Helena wanted, _Rosamie_ (with her kind eyes, and warm gaze) still knows how to love a child.

Her mother's laughter is tinkling and large as it fills their small, pink kitchen. Her sister Hermione stops looking so furious suddenly, and Helena swallows, tiny fists clenching.

She didn't know how to feel at the curiosity that's sparked in her sister's dark brown eyes, but she knew she couldn't find it in herself to tear her gaze away from the sight.

Makkah's look on her is warm and soft. Helena tried not to flinch when he bends down to press a soft kiss against her forehead. His beard scratched against her hairline, and Helena wrinkled her nose.

Her father _Makkah_ looks at her like she's the very reason for his existence. It made her want to _squirm._

She doesn't like the static of the panic that wells inside her. Doesn't like it at all—just how much has she missed?

...

Helena forgot, naturally, that her sister had not been dead before, and to little Hermione, every new thing was _bright,_ and _shiny,_ and _curious._

She forgot that her undivided attention was one of those new things—still too wrapped in the cage of her mind.

Hermione did not forget.

Her baby sister had looked at her, finally. Helena had looked, she had _seen,_ and _watched_ , and Hermione couldn't let go of the feeling of her sister's eyes locking onto her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously considering abandoning this story, especially after Rowling came out with all of that transphobic garbage. It felt as if some of my love and affection for the characters was ruined. But I really have loved Harry Potter for so long, and I thought I could create a story in which inclusion is valued, not exclusion. I still love writing for Helena, and Hermione and the Granger family. In the end, I don't think I'll abandon it, because I think I can make a good story out of a world created in the mind of someone so prejudiced. Besides, there's such a thing as Death of the Author, and for me, that's settled in nicely.
> 
> So, enjoy this update, it's long been overdue.


End file.
